


fragments

by leftbrainhipcheck



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftbrainhipcheck/pseuds/leftbrainhipcheck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't deny the violence inside of you, Kira."</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragments

**Author's Note:**

> (Also read aloud, by me, [here](https://app.box.com/s/1x1xpk0uks4185ymi70n).)

She visits you in the quietest part of the night.  You are praying, and she offers to leave, starts to excuse herself, but you take hold of her wrist and ask her to stay.

 _It's fine.  I don't think the Prophets are listening to me tonight anyway_ , you tell her.

She tilts her head, searches your face in that way she has, as though you are a problem that she cannot quite believe she cannot quite unravel. 

 _I doubt they’d abandon you now_ , she says.

(Now, she means, with the Kai a voluntary hostage on another planet, her words still ringing in your ears.  ‘You can’t bury it, Kira.  Don’t deny the violence inside of you.’)

 _Well_ , _they're being awfully quiet_ , you say.

_Maybe they're just listening._

You are struck with a sudden and unexpected urge to step toward her, to pull her in and curl around her.  To rest for a moment against lips that are capable of that much kindness.  But you are still you, after all, with so much that is wrong and sharp tangled in your thoughts, in your lungs.  And so you don’t, of course you don’t.

What you do is say, _I hope they're listening.  I don't know what else to do_.  The edge of helplessness in your voice is made bearable only by your faint hope that Jadzia, of all people, might understand.  Jadzia, who has a past – several, in fact – that she both owns but cannot quite own.  Jadzia, who is also Dax – young woman, world-wise symbiont – just as you are both Kira, and also Nerys - Federation officer, resistance fighter.  Jadzia's entire existence is a lesson in resolving contradiction, in reconciling history with the present; if there is anyone who might understand your struggle to reunite with what you have buried in yourself, it is she.

But she doesn't give you advice.  Instead, she asks you to repeat, again, what Kai Opaka told you, words about how you are already forgiven for the violence you have done, about how you need only forgive yourself.  Words that were handed to you, a half-gift, a map without a compass, before the Kai stood in one spot and watched you walk away.

 

 

 _I've tried_ , you say.  _I don’t deny what happened.  The things I did.  There isn’t a day_ \--

But you stop here, because the memories are waiting for you, as always, squinting in the sunlight and choking on dust, on metallic adrenaline, weapon fire, chaos, screaming and broken bones and the world tearing in two, shatter before sickening shimmering quiet, the skeletal bodies and lolling tongues, the glassy unfocused eyes of the dead and nearly-dead, the smell of blood, the whine of death in your ears, your brain three steps behind your body every time because this cannot be real, _this is my home,_ cannot be happening –

And then there is Jadzia, in front of you, hands cool on your wrists, saying your name, drawing you back.  You are grateful for her presence; you are grateful that she lets you go when you pull away, when you throw yourself onto the bed and curl up, when you stare determinedly at a spot on the wall where there is nothing.

You tell yourself you don't deserve to cry.

 

 

She is quiet, for a while, and then she is not quiet.  Then she is sitting next to you, not touching you, not even looking at you, but she is saying _Tell me about your faith, Nerys.  Please_.  And there are no right words, ever, but these must be something like them, because you find a door inside yourself creaking open, and you find yourself speaking.  Slowly, haltingly.  But speaking.

 _I want to live a life of prayer_ , you say, your voice hoarse and distant; you clear your throat and try again.

_It’s not – not that I want to pray.  Or not only.  I want to walk through the universe… I want to be a prayer.  I want to be something the Prophets recognize.  Something that – pleases them.  Something they know as their own._

You don't deserve to cry.

_And I am so far from that, Jadzia.  I think about that girl, that twelve-year-old girl who joined the resistance, and how... shining she was.  And now, I'm..._

You are quiet again.

You are not crying.

Jadzia rests a hand in the space between you, and you can’t stop yourself from flinching away.  But after a moment you unwrap one arm from around your waist and lay your hand in her open palm.  Her fingers curl around yours.

 

 

 _It will never be okay, the things that happened to you_ , she says at length.  She speaks as though it is a simple thing, but the idea forces the air from your lungs.

 _No_ , you say when you can finally breathe again.  _It won’t_.  You grit your teeth against something that claws at your skin like anguish, and something else behind it, a prickling sort of release.  Something like gratitude, you think.  Like grace.

 

 _Tell me about your faith_ , she repeats.  _Tell me what you told me about questions and answers._

You know the conversation she means; you remember saying the words to her, and you can’t believe they ever came to you so easily.  'Faith requires more than just a willingness to open yourself to questions,' you'd said, so sure.  ‘Faith is belief that there's an answer.  Even to questions that seem unanswerable.'

You think: don't deny the violence, Kira.

You think: it will never be okay, the things that happened.

You think: there are no answers to questions that cannot be asked.

What you say is: _Jadzia_. 

And you lean toward her.

 

 

She kisses you as though she could lift the words from your mouth so you wouldn’t have to say them after all - as though she could somehow relieve you of the burden of your history, of your many, many confessions.

And almost before you realize what’s happening you are on top of her, you are tugging at her uniform, pressing against her like you could slide beneath the surface of her skin and be lost there, hidden.  But her hands find the tears on your cheeks and she says your name, _Kira_ \--

You shake your head; you aren't ready to stop kissing her, you aren't ready to let go --

 _Nerys_ , she says --

She angles away from you, just slightly, so that your forehead is still pressed to hers, and you whisper _please_ , but she only cups your face in her hands and whispers back to you, things about _shh_ and _safe now_ and _okay_ and  _loved_.  You stay that way for a long time, listening to the ringing in your ears.  Waiting for your heart to slow, for your tears to stop.  Waiting to come back to yourself.

 

 

_I want the Prophets to undo this._

She nods, so you nod.  _I know_.

It takes you a while to continue.  To confess.

 _Denying it is what keeps me breathing_ , you say.   _Every moment, I fight it -- every moment.  I walk around this station, in this uniform, down these hallways that were built by slaves and -- I swear to you, Jadzia, if I think too hard I can't_ breathe.

(‘That's over for me now,’ you’d insisted to Opaka.  'That's not who I am.’)

(The audacity it took to say those words.  Or, no: the delusion that uttering a lie with enough conviction could somehow make it true.)

 _Nerys_ , Jadzia says, and places a hand on your chest.  _You_ are _breathing_.

You look up and into the eyes of your friend, measuring the weight of her hand on your breastbone.  The gentle shift of it as you inhale.

(Don’t.)

You were twelve years old, a shining thing.

And then you were seventeen, red with dirt and wild with rage, you were twenty-two and hard, calculating, with a smile dangerous as a curved blade, you were twenty-six, you were drained and empty and grief-stricken and exhausted, but now you are here.

This is where you are.  (You can’t bury it.)

It is simple; it is unfair.  Unfathomable.

You are here, surrounded by stars and darkness, small and broken.  And still, you are breathing.

(They are waiting.)

The words whisper against her lips as you lean in again.  They linger in the space as it shrinks between you.

 _I am breathing_ , you say, and you are.

It feels like prayer.

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks as ever to [KK](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne) for her excellent beta-reading.


End file.
